


All Kinds of Battles

by Highly_Illogical



Series: The Age That Should Have Been [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Merlin, Butchered Old English, Court Sorcerer Merlin, Gen, Magic, Politics, Spells & Enchantments, Swordfighting, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16072976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: As Camelot prepares for the possibility of war, Merlin has battles of his own to win that don't involve wielding a sword. And if he finally gets to show off a little in the process... well, he's secretly enjoying it, but don't tell anyone.





	All Kinds of Battles

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this came from.  
> I had completely different plans, but this demanded to be written. I probably just wanted a chance for my precious baby to stretch his magical muscles.  
> Enjoy the not-so-average day in the life of a Court Sorcerer.

Having a seat of his own at the Round Table is the kind of thing Merlin will never really get used to. Granted, it loses some of its charm when he takes into account that, in the absence of epic quests or anything of the sort, the meetings are less about glorious deeds of arms and more about long, painfully detailed reports saying that nothing of note is happening, but in a lot more words than necessary.

Still, he'll endure hours and hours of discussion on the state of the roads and the growth of the crops in some far-flung village just for the way it feels. He hasn't entirely conquered his seat yet: he can see hostile eyes tracking his every move as he follows Arthur and Gwen into the room and settles on the king's other side, envious gazes wondering how it is that not one, but two former servants managed to get there, no doubt whispering dangerous ideas in his ear from both directions. But even with the old guard just waiting for a misstep on his part that they might use to push him off his pedestal, men old enough to be the king's fathers who look wistfully upon the previous rule and haven't quite swallowed the bitter pill of change, there's a sense of _rightness_ when he sits in his newly designated spot that is worth all the boring meetings and the implied slights in the Five Kingdoms. This is where he was meant to be all along.

He's still learning the ins and outs of his new station in life, to be sure, and it's all a tangle of finicky rules to memorize and subtle political games trying to trip him up on all sides: every choice of words seems to have layers upon layers of meaning that you can peel back like an onion, and how is he meant to remember who's supposed to bow to whom when he just about choked in surprise the first time anyone did it to him, bent at the waist in the flawless portrait of a deference he'd done nothing to earn?

It doesn't help that there was no ready-made protocol for his position. What little is left of the previous Court Sorcerers speaks of great deeds, not of the humdrum details of courtly etiquette such as how to address him and where he should rightfully sit. They had to build that from the ground up, and it was a careful balancing act, because even at a table of supposed equals, the seating arrangement is the source of endless squabbles. There are unspoken messages in how far you sit from the royal couple, arguments capable of reducing battle-hardened men to spoiled children when the admission of a new knight upsets the order of things and gives them a neighbor they aren't pleased with, whispered implications that come with every move. When he wedged his way between the king and his First Knight, they all readily jumped to conclusions, wondering with malicious glee what poor Sir Leon must have done to fall out of favor and whether his prized position would soon be up for grabs.

Ridiculous, if you ask him. It's plain to see that one seat of difference only means that Sir Leon has to speak perhaps a fraction louder as he gives the king his report. He's just come back from a journey that took him a hair's breadth from Lot's lands, and his face as he begins to relay his discoveries promises no good news. Maybe he was too quick to dismiss today's assembly as boring.

“We've seen signs of unusual activity near the border with Essetir,” he says without preamble. “People seem to be converging there, and with no great intention to settle down. No families with women and children, not much in the way of supplies, just small bands of men armed up to their teeth with whatever they can get, and not shy about using it.”

“Casualties?” asks Arthur, suddenly all business.

“Only minor injuries, already being treated. They mostly kept to themselves, except for one particularly aggressive group with little training, poorly crafted weapons, and a much too high opinion of both. That, or they were desperate.”

Merlin's stomach clenches. Even with Leon's dismissive description of the encounter, his thoughts turn inevitably to his mother. Ealdor is a border village, close enough to Camelot for its fear and distrust of magic to bleed into the minds of the townsfolk, and far enough from the heart of Essetir for the king not to care whether they live or die. If armed men are flocking to Lot's side with little food in their satchels and a lot of plans to earn their next meal with blood, places like that will be the first to bear the brunt of their passage. He can only hope they haven't forgotten their training against Kanen so long ago.

He must be squirming in his seat more than he realized, because many eyes turn to him—some, like Gwen's, sympathetic to his plight, and others ready to hold him personally responsible for any stirrings of trouble coming from the general direction of Essetir, as if he had any sway over Lot when he's never even seen the man's face. They need someone to blame, and the outsider from Essetir who just so happens to be a sorcerer fits the description, no matter that the word ‘home’ brings up more images of Camelot than Ealdor in his mind.

“Mercenaries,” is the grim conclusion that Arthur voices, seeing it mirrored in everyone's faces. “Clearly, he's learnt his tactics at Cenred's knee. We can take comfort in the fact that we're not his only neighbors; one skirmish with hungry men who were more interested in taking supplies than lives is not proof that Lot is moving against Camelot at all. Still, it never hurts to be prepared. Intensify the training schedule, and see to it that the citadel remain fully stocked at all times; we can't rule out the possibility of a siege.”

Merlin looks at Gwaine, expecting a groan at the mention of a new and more punishing routine, but it never comes. Instead, he says in a winning tone: “They're no match for us. If I know the type, they're little more than thugs with more brawn than skill who will turn tail as soon as they find someone who pays better.”

“That kind of arrogance is what could make the difference between life and death, Sir Gwaine,” says Arthur sternly, and Merlin has to wonder at hearing him speak of arrogance without reeking of hypocrisy from miles away. If the entitled golden boy from all those years ago were here, he wouldn't recognize himself. “Stay after the meeting, I need a word with you.”

Ever the politician, Arthur cleverly directs the conversation so that before Merlin even realizes what he's doing, he's found some excuse or other to delay the departure of all his closest few: a meeting of the inner circle, and an urgent one, by the looks of it, declared without outright dismissing those who have no place in it and inadvertently causing offense. For all that he's better with a sword than with a quill and would much rather let Merlin plan his speeches than write his own, he sure knows how to play the game.

“Out with it, princess. I know you didn't keep me just to punish me like a schoolboy.”

“There's something I failed to mention at the greater meeting, but this is the sort of news the others may need us to break a bit more gently than by royal decree, given their reaction to… recent changes.”

Merlin's breath quickens, because he knows by now that ‘recent changes’ is more or less code for ‘this is a job for the Court Sorcerer’. A small part of him wonders when those changes will stop being recent.

He has yet to understand what said job even is, in the frankly suspicious absence of evil enchantments and murderous beasts that look like Mother Nature’s fever dream; in all their meticulous planning, they haven't considered what it is that the Court Sorcerer does when his services aren't needed. He feels awful for idly wishing for a magical assassin to show up just so he can prove himself, but lately, he's been harboring the nagging feeling that he's just there for decoration, his long days strangely empty without the endless lists of menial chores, his new and more generous salary burning holes in his pockets, unused and unearned.

“Lot's predecessor had no qualms about allying with the likes of Morgause,” says Arthur, slow and careful. Whatever point he intends to make, he's taking the scenic route to get there, and it rings warning bells in Merlin's mind.

“And look what good _that_ did him,” he can't resist interjecting. He feels more comfortable speaking up at these informal meetings of people who won't take the slightest slip of the tongue as an indication that he's unfit for his title than in the presence of all those shrewd noblemen who seem to encircle the famed Table like hungry wolves.

“True, but Lot may not have learnt that lesson. Essetir never outright banned sorcery, and we have no definite intelligence on where he stands on using it in battle.”

Merlin sucks in a breath as everyone's thoughts seem to rush to the inevitable end of the speech and their stares weigh heavy upon him. Well, so much for being about as useful as a tapestry on the wall.

“I refuse to be caught unprepared now that we have the means to fight fire with fire. I realize now that part of the reason why magic did so much damage in recent years is that my father's policies essentially rendered us helpless against it, and that's a mistake I don't intend to repeat. I trust you'll meet me on the training grounds bright and early for the next session, _all of you_. Spread the word, and if anyone refuses to come, it's their funeral.”

He can't mean that. Merlin heard the implication loud and clear, but his mind is railing against the absurdity of it, because it sounds like Arthur wants his men trained against magic, and that… that wasn't part of the plan. Not that there was much of a plan to begin with, he's the first to admit they had no idea what they were getting into when the title of Court Sorcerer was resurrected from the ashes of history, but he's just as good as told him that the next training session is in his hands, and gods, how will he even get them to _listen_ , when most of them are veterans from Uther's time who regard him as a jumped-up peasant at best, and at worst a wolf in sheep's clothing who has the king eating out of his hand by means of evil sorcery?

He supposes he should at least have the decency to look apologetically at Sir Leon, who is usually in charge of training the knights when Arthur's kingly duties keep him away, but he finds the man frozen next to him with something other than displeasure at seeing him usurp his role as well as his seat. Jerkily, the First Knight meets his gaze with a small nod that might mean anything from _apology accepted_ to _let's do this, just please go easy on me_. Old habits die hard.

“Let them chicken out. I, for one, wouldn't miss this for the world.”

But even Gwaine's grinning face does little to loosen the knot of apprehension in his gut.

 

The morning dawns crisp and perfect, not a single cloud in the sky to threaten to disrupt the day, a stark contrast to Merlin's mood. He knows he'll regret not eating, but he hasn't trusted his breakfast to stay down, disjointed ideas of what he might do chasing his appetite away. He has no plan to speak of: he's watched more training sessions than he can count, but this is no ordinary bout of sparring, and the usual rules don't apply. What was Arthur thinking? He's the only person with magic he trusts enough to use as a demonstration of what they might be facing, but those are not exactly stellar qualifications. It feels like only yesterday he was a student, drinking in his spellbook like a sponge, never even having seen such a wealth of knowledge in one place before, and today he woke up and was expected to be a teacher, a leader of men, someone who commands respect.

He's pretty sure he is none of those things, but here he is, facing the assembled knights next to Arthur and feeling distinctly like he's shrunk a good few inches overnight. He doesn't know how the others achieved such a miracle, but not a single one has elected to skip the meeting, and they make an appropriately intimidating spectacle: now more than ever, he knows why the reputation of the Knights of Camelot precedes them. If he were the enemy, he'd be quaking in his boots. Oh, who is he kidding? He's doing that anyway.

“Still using the boy for target practice?” a jeering voice rises from the back of the group. There's some scattered snickering in response, and Merlin is a second away from leaving. Even kings have a bad idea every once in a while, and this is clearly one of those times.

“And for that, you're up first,” says Arthur. “Front and center. Between the two of us, I'm sure you can be persuaded to take this seriously, and address the Court Sorcerer properly while you're at it.”

Merlin watches the crowd part with a great clinking of chainmail and wonders when his stomach will stop performing a backflip every time Arthur uses his title in public. To be fair, the knight who advances to the front row is the last person who has any right to call him ‘boy’: with a mutinous face he barely knows, a shock of ginger hair and an upturned nose that gives him an air of permanent disdain, the third or fourth son of Lord Whatshisname is barely more than a boy himself, a freshly knighted recruit who hasn't yet learnt what it's like to train under Arthur, nor built up the muscle to withstand it. Percival could snap him in two like a twig. But he does have something that Merlin decidedly lacks at the moment: an opinion of himself so high he might hurt himself falling. He's never liked people like him, but right now, he envies him that.

“Go on, then. How would you go about fighting a sorcerer? I'm sure we can all learn from your splendid technique.”

The young man, Merlin notices, never meets the king's eyes, but he has no problem looking down on him as he draws his training sword and falls into a well-practiced fighting stance, considering his options. He seems to have noticed that Merlin has come unarmed, and perhaps some faint stirring of the honor and chivalry he's been fed with his milk as a babe is stopping him from outright charging at him; that, or he's smart enough to realize there must be a reason why he's wearing no more than the clothes on his back, and he doesn't fancy discovering it. Either way, the challenge has been issued, and backing down is clearly not contemplated: either he tries, or he apologizes for his remark and goes back to his place like a good little boy.

He takes off running with a yell, and there's a panicked moment in which Merlin's feet just want to dodge him and run like a rabbit with a fox, it's full of people, he can't, he'll lose his head for sure, before his brain connects and tells him these last few weeks were, in fact, real.

He lashes out wordlessly, a thought made solid that slams into the knight's chest and sends him flying back with a grunt of pained surprise. He lands in a heap with a curse his noble father wouldn't approve of.

“Feels like I've been kicked by a horse,” he mumbles, pulling himself up to a sitting position on the grassy lawn.

Oh, gods, that was too much. He's done for if he's broken something, he's ready to bet the young man's father is liable to denounce him as an evil sorcerer for plucking a hair off his precious boy's head, let alone this. Silently blessing his old mentor for beating some training into his recalcitrant brain, he's by his side in moments, rattling off questions.

“Should we get Gaius? Was it a soft landing? Does it hurt to breathe? Can you get your chainmail off?”

The knight meets his outpouring of worry with the look of a child exasperated with his nagging mother, but all the same, his chest swells experimentally beneath the metal, and Merlin is flooded with relief to see that he can do that without wincing. “M'fine, just a nasty shock.”

He pointedly ignores Merlin's proffered hand and gets to his feet, marching back with deliberate steps that are one clank of armor away from stomping in offended pride.

“Now that that's settled,” says Arthur, managing to sound like nothing much has happened at all, “any other takers?”

“After _that_?” Gwaine steps forward and Merlin's stomach drops. He hadn't reckoned with having to attack his friends, and he mentally takes a good few tankards of ale out of his finances, planning to apologize profusely over rowdy drunken singing at The Rising Sun. “I'm the only one with no dignity left to lose, might as well get knocked on my arse one more time.”

His dulled blade gleams in the morning sun as he gives it an unnecessary twirl that is half a show and half a warning, and off he goes. Some of the fear has cleared now: there is no malice in Gwaine's stance, and it's easier to think straight when the person coming at you with a weapon is a friend. Merlin barely lets him take two strides before the sword shoots out of his helpless hand and lands well away with a muffled _thump_. Gwaine falters and slows to a stop, considering chasing after it and readily dismissing the thought.

“Didn't see that coming. Oh, well.”

He resumes his run, undeterred, and Merlin belatedly remembers that he may be disarmed, but he's just as skilled in the fine art of brawling with a smashed bottle as your weapon at best, and nothing's stopping him from going for a good, old-fashioned tackle. He sends a tendril of magic in the direction of his feet and Gwaine trips on thin air, sprawling on the grass with a yelp.

“All right, I get the idea.” Merlin is on high alert, ready for him to try again, set on his goal like a dog with a bone, but to his surprise, he pulls up to his feet and makes a half-hearted gesture of surrender, taking his evident defeat in stride. There must be a reason why he was dubbed Strength and not Perseverance. “At this rate, I'll be old and grey by the time I get anywhere near you.”

There's some tentative laughter at Gwaine's predicament. “I'd like to see you try,” he challenges as he stalks after his lost weapon and retreats in much better spirits than his younger comrade.

“Rather disappointing, but that's the right attitude,” says Arthur. “You'll be dealing with the unexpected; regroup, find ways around the problem, and don't be afraid to fight dirty. Even perfect swordsmanship may not save you.”

Nods all around as the knights receive the message, then there's a sound of scraping metal, and if Merlin is surprised to see Leon with his sword half drawn as if asking for the next turn, it's nothing to the _what am I doing?_ sort of look painted on his own face. Merlin admires the older knight's honest effort at reshaping his idea of a sorcerer to fit the former bumbling servant he's come to know, but he's second only to Arthur in flinching unthinkingly at the sight of magic, and today, all his progress may very well be destroyed if he doesn't go about this the right way.

His eyes flash gold, the air shimmers as if at the sweltering height of summer, and Leon just stands there, studying him and being studied in turn. He was visibly caught wrong-footed, and Merlin needs no magic at all to see him processing it furiously—why did he take action before he even took a step forward, and why did he feel nothing? Doesn't the golden glow mean trouble?

Puzzled and more than a little worried – what spell can be seen, but not felt? Will it come back to bite him later? –, Leon advances. Instead of running full tilt in Merlin's direction, he approaches with tentative, measured steps, sword at the ready, as though he expected the ground to crumble under his feet or an enemy to jump out at him any minute.

And then he just… stops. After only a few strides, he meets the barely visible shimmer and can walk no further.

“It's like hitting a solid wall,” he says, and prods it experimentally with the tip of his sword, letting out a sound of polite surprise when it reaches the unseen obstacle and refuses to move an inch beyond it. It's a curious sensation, like a gentle poke at the edge of Merlin's awareness, a light jab in a phantom limb, and he smiles. Let him make his observations, he's got all day.

Leon feels blindly ahead with his unarmed hand until he meets resistance, and it's only when he smiles back that Merlin notices he hadn't seen that expression on his face in far too long. He watches the realization descend on him as he appreciates the fact that he has literally just touched magic and lived to tell the tale, and very nearly laughs when he pats the shield like a skittish horse.

Only then does the First Knight remember his original task, and he sets out to solve the very conspicuous problem in front of him like a man who's seen it all and then some. He nudges the base of the barrier with his foot, only to find out that it goes all the way to the grassy ground and there's no way to slip under it; he stretches as high as he can reach to gauge its height and discards the notion of trying to jump over it; he follows its invisible shape, trailing a hand along it, looking for its end in hopes of simply getting around it, discovering to his dismay that it comes full circle and he can't attack from behind.

“Handy, that. Can it include others?”

Merlin is fairly certain his grin is lighting up the training grounds like a beacon. He's getting used to a slow but steady trickle of people coming to him with questions about magic that try to sound off-handed and fail in a spectacular fashion, but Leon was never one of them before.

“Wait for it,” he warns, and pushes the bubble of protection a bit further to cover him. Leon gives a shudder as it comes.

“Oof. That was…” He fails to find a word for it and trails off weakly.

“Like your hair was standing on end?”

“Yes, that… that about covers it.” Then his features morph into a mischievous smile that has absolutely no business being on his prim and proper face, and he says smugly: “You realize that was an egregious tactical mistake?”

And he charges before Merlin has time to work out what he's talking about, the barrier well behind him.

“Whoa!”

The shield shrinks in on itself, making Leon's breath catch as it bypasses him, and he hits it face-first once more, unable to lose momentum before the crash. He stumbles back, defeated, and Merlin lets the spell dissolve, acknowledging his unspoken surrender.

Despite the less than brilliant result, Merlin hears clapping and realizes Arthur is giving a very slow, deliberate round of applause.

“Very good, Sir Leon, ever the strategist. Can anyone draw conclusions from this?”

There's dead silence in response, and the king is moments away from pulling at his hair in exasperation.

“Some things you can't fight head on, but sorcerers are people, and people can be tricked. I'd keep that in mind if I were you. I know I will.” He flashes Merlin a teasing smile with that last remark, and he can't bring himself to care about what he's cooking up. They're on the mend, and that's worth months in the stocks.

Arthur waits for the murmur of understanding to die down and adds, almost as an afterthought: “That, and it really _was_ handy. It could easily save lives, but we need to know how far it can go, how long it can be sustained, and how much it can withstand.”

“I… I haven't tested it enough,” he says in a smaller voice than he'd planned, momentarily overwhelmed by how smoothly Arthur is integrating magic into his tactics, blinded by the sudden, fanciful vision of himself on a raging battlefield, hailed as a hero as a vast, shimmering dome defends Arthur's men from a vicious rain of crossbow bolts thick enough to obscure the sun.

“Then we have our order of business for next time,” the king answers without missing a beat, and his heart stutters at the thought that there will be a next time. “For now, let's see what else we can find out. Next?”

“Might as well,” pipes up Elyan, rolling his shoulders in preparation. “I'm actually kind of curious to see what you have up your sleeve.”

He starts off, and Merlin's next thought is mad, he ought to have Gaius check him over, but this is actually sort of fun. If this is what being the Court Sorcerer entails, he could get used to it. Time to pull out all the stops.

“ _Ic bebēode græd bēonne cwecesand_ ,” he intones, not missing the frisson of fear that sweeps across the crowd like a gust of wind rippling through tall grass, the nervous looks, the hands tightening around the hilts in tense anticipation of some grand curse ready to befall his challenger.

“What the…?”

While the bystanders are waiting for the skies to open up and rain down their wrath upon Sir Elyan, the poor sap has already sunk into the patch of quicksand that has popped into existence at his feet and he's being sucked in fast, weighed down by his armor and only making it worse with his useless struggling.

Merlin feels sorry for him, but he can't help taking a moment to admire his handiwork. There's a subtle pleasure in simply willing something to exist, in making that inexplicable leap between words and facts, shaping reality by virtue of his thoughts and his voice alone. He's never worked with clay, but he imagines it must be much the same to watch a vase slowly taking its sinuous shape under deft fingers, and if that's considered a respectable craft, even an art, why not this?

“Er, Percival? A little help here?” Elyan's falsely light tone fools absolutely no one, but the massive man gets the message loud and clear: it's brute force or nothing, so he's the man for the job.

Planting his feet at the edge of the quicksand (a less scrupulous man would just extend it and let him sink as well, but Merlin has learnt a thing or two about fighting fair from watching all those tournaments), he proffers his training sword, dulled enough that it can be safely grasped without slicing your hands open, and gives a mighty tug, then another, until with their combined effort, Elyan crawls onto solid ground, muddied and panting, but in one piece.

“That should teach you to count on each other,” is the lesson Arthur draws from the spectacle, even if Merlin never intended it as a lesson at all. “Where one man isn't enough against a sorcerer, more than one might be.”

“Ugh. I feel bad for whoever gets to clean this.” Elyan stands and turns to Merlin with a _remind me not to get you angry_ look. Then, in a casual tone that almost manages to mask the lingering tension: “I see you actually used words for that. Should I be flattered?”

Merlin flounders, grasping for a way to put it that doesn't sound like shameless bragging. “Er… it's easier that way. Most magic users need them all the time.”

“Meaning that you don't. And here I thought you'd only just started showing off.”

“That wasn't showing off!” he protests loudly. “That was… ah…” he falters, then lights upon a comparison that might work and launches into the explanation: “Look, imagine you're planning an ambush, or you're hunting and you don't want to scare away the game. You're all trained to communicate silently, right? You can send each other messages without saying a word, as long as they're simple things like ‘spread out’ or ‘take aim’. But when the order is just too long and complicated to convey through gestures alone, then you have to speak. This is not much different.”

The result is a work of art: a wave of dawning comprehension passing through the knights' eyes, closely followed by varying degrees of surprise and horror that he managed to sneak a small lecture about sorcery right past them and they actually understood it. And since he's lecturing (how did that happen, by the way?), he might as well take a leap of faith and go all the way.

“I think you should learn the old tongue,” he says as quickly as the words will come out, and watches the idea land and explode in a cacophony of protests.

“Are you mad?”

“What would that accomplish?”

“I'm not doing that if they pay me solid gold!”

“Not to _use_ it!” he shouts over the chorus, effectively shutting them up out of sheer surprise that a glorified servant would have the audacity to yell at them. _Most of you wouldn't be able to lift a twig_ , adds a more unkind part of him that he's quick to smother. “Just to have some idea of what you're facing.”

That, by some miracle, catches a bit more interest.

“People are afraid of what they don't know.” There are some offended looks at the implication that they're afraid of him, which is the height of hypocrisy, but at least they're listening. “Think about it: if you caught me in the middle of casting a spell, how many of you would know what I'm saying? It could be a blessing or a curse, and it would all sound the same. But if you were to catch even one word, it could give you one more moment to prepare.”

Arthur looks at him rather like he's grown a second head, but he seems to be taking it into consideration. Elyan, on the other hand, is quicker to come to a decision.

“Sign me up,” he says as easily as if Merlin had just offered to teach him to do a lively jig. “You up next, Percy?”

The quicksand is still there, and Percival seems to study it as if it were a riddle to solve, then he gives a small smile.

“Thought you'd never ask. I have an idea.”

Uh-oh. That doesn't sound very promising. As he sidesteps the trap and prepares to charge, Merlin gulps. Whatever Percival is thinking, he's not looking forward to the bruises.

“ _Wíntréow, hine bindaþ!_ ”

He can feel it before it comes: a quiet, unseen stirring as the earth responds to his plea, and the towering knight goes down with a metallic clatter as vines sprout from beneath, snaking up his powerful legs and holding him fast.

And then Percival's idea comes to fruition: he stands, still bound by the leafy restraints climbing slowly up his lower limbs, stares straight at Merlin with the air of a beast that's been provoked, and uproots the entire thing with a great heave and a spray of soil, shaking it off with a satisfied smile and starting again.

He really should have expected that. Percival is the sort of man who, coming upon a locked door, simply kicks it down and keeps going.

“ _Heaðureáf áhefege!_ ”

It's only when Percival crashes to the ground a second time, falling to his knees under the sudden added weight that pulls his armor irresistibly downward, that his thoughts catch up with him and he looks sideways at Arthur, praying he hasn't noticed how uncomfortably close that was to Morgana's interference with his duel against Queen Annis's champion. He never meant to take a leaf out of her book, it was simply the first stray thought that strolled through his head, perhaps because his own experience with using magic in combat is mostly limited to dropping convenient tree branches on people's heads and he's running out of ideas.

He has, of course he has, and he seems to be deciding what to think, studying him intently with one eye as the other watches Percival's progress with interest.

The man is shaking with the effort of getting back up, and incredibly, inch by inch, he seems to be overcoming even this latest obstacle, pulling up to his feet and advancing with great, heavy steps and a single-minded gleam in his eyes, panting like a dog after a long chase. Short of encasing him in solid rock, nothing physical can stop him, that much is clear. There are other ways, of course: if he truly wanted it, Percival could forget his task entirely, or direct his considerable strength against someone else in the mistaken belief that he was attacking him, his eyes clouded by illusion, but those are spectacularly bad ideas, and if it's the audience or Merlin himself who's not ready, well… that's up for debate.

He takes a swing with his large, rippling arms, and Merlin has to dodge the blade desperately, counting on his unusual slowness to save his hide.

Hindered by the spell, he can't rain down blows as swiftly as he normally would, and in the instant he takes to breathe, Merlin's gaze lands on the large wooden shield usually reserved for knife-throwing practice, lying abandoned against the castle wall and looking like salvation to his searching eyes, in all its dented and scratched glory. A flash of gold and it comes between them, meeting Percival's weapon with a dull _thunk_. Had it been sharpened, he suspects it would have pierced right through.

“Good show. You can both stop now.”

The shield drops as Arthur puts an end to the mock fight, and Percival exhales loudly with the relief of feeling the weight lift from his shoulders as he watches it balance on the edge for a moment and fall flat on the grass.

“Well, that was… interesting,” he says, and it's a wonder he has any breath left in him.

“Any guesses why Sir Percival got the closest?” inquires the king, sounding very much like a schoolmaster addressing a bunch of unruly boys.

“Doesn't take a genius to see it, he literally muscled through anything Merlin could throw at him,” is Gwaine's brutally honest commentary.

Arthur nods approvingly. “Proof that some things _can_ be fought head on, so you're welcome to try. It's comforting to know that steel and sinew are not completely useless.”

Merlin sends him a grateful look. He hasn't missed the way he managed to turn anything he did into a learning occasion, applying the strategic thinking that's been drilled into him from a tender age to what he sees, when Merlin is in fact improvising frantically, showcasing whatever magic he can think of with no such thing as a lesson plan. Is this what it should have felt like from the very beginning to work alongside him, their skills and experiences falling together and becoming more than the sum of their parts?

The rest of the session can only be described as a bloodless massacre. One by one or in teams, the mighty Knights of Camelot stumble over nothing, get thrown halfway across the training grounds like ragdolls, and fall asleep in the middle of their lunges. Their swords get snapped cleanly in two or bent out of shape (“You'd better be able to fix those, Merlin!”), and they find themselves dropping them with a scream when they grow too hot to handle (“Oh, gods, sorry! Is it bad?”). They're disrupted by a whirlwind strong enough to bring all fighting to a stop; they slip on slabs of ice that weren't there a moment before, and one memorable time, the entire training grounds are covered by a fog so thick they have no idea where to charge. Arrows and bolts bend and snap before they're loaded, stop mid-flight and drop harmlessly to the ground, or outright turn against them once they're shot.

And through it all, Merlin is weaving in and out of the barely controlled chaos, an elusive prey that no hunter can catch, and doesn't have a scratch on him.

But by far the best moment, in Merlin's humble opinion, is when Arthur himself joins the fray and finds himself duelling a phantom swordsman as a training blade takes to the air and meets him blow by blow, shuddering with the force of it, but never falling no matter how hard he tries.

He lets out an exhilarated laugh that is met with a glare as the king strikes and parries in turn and never gains ground. If he'd known this was what was waiting for him, he might have come clean sooner. He's starting to feel the strain, but as far as he's concerned, the fun has just begun.

“It's like fighting against thin air! There's nothing to hit!”

“That's rather the point,” Merlin deadpans.

Arthur gives an angry swing that sends vibrations through his extended awareness of the enchanted weapon, but his extra hand is stronger than his physical ones and doesn't falter.

“Don't you ever get tired?”

“Not yet,” he lies through his teeth. His stomach chooses just that moment to prove him wrong with a loud, growling protest. Here comes his missed breakfast to bite him in the rear. Arthur smirks and renews his effort, inching forward with a merciless hail of blows.

“You… were… saying?” he grunts, every word a clang of metal meeting metal.

“All right, fine, I'm starving, but I'm not stopping until you admit I'm not useless with a sword.”

“This doesn't count!”

“Does too!”

“Does not!”

“You're the one who said not to be afraid to fight dirty. Admit it and we'll call it even.”

For a moment, it looks like he's going to refuse, stiffly proclaiming that there can be no such thing as even, only a winner and a loser, and that he has no intention of being the latter, but then his sword arm drops limply to his side with who knows what other considerations, and Merlin lets go, wondering at the easy compliance.

“Fine, whatever you say. I need a word with you in the armory anyway.”

Puzzled, Merlin starts towards it slowly, waiting for Arthur to call it a day and for the gaggle of knights to begin to disperse.

In the relative privacy, with the rowdy goodbyes only reaching them from afar, the king rounds in on him.

“You were holding back.”

It's a statement, not a question, and Merlin drops heavily onto the nearest bench, well and truly caught.

“How did you know? You saw what happened!”

“I did. No one managed to lay a finger on you, I'll give you that. But I also saw something else.”

He lapses into silence, begging the question, and Merlin falls for it hook, line and sinker.

“What?”

“That trick with the hot swords was the only thing that left a mark, and you _apologized_. Do you think Lot's sorcerers are going to apologize on the battlefield, or take care not to hurt us? I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're certainly not protecting us.”

The words feel like a punch in the gut, and it doesn't matter how much sense they make: he's tired, he's hungry, and he snaps.

“They're my friends, excuse me if I'd rather see them alive and well! Not to mention that the rest of them will bow and scrape and follow protocol when you're within earshot, and make it very clear what they think of me as soon as you turn your back, and I really don't need to prove them right about the evil sorcerer in their midst. I may have trounced them all in the mock fights, but I'm not even close to done doing battle.”

There's a moment of heavy silence as the king takes it all in.

“I didn't know it was that bad.”

“It's not anyone's fault, Arthur. You don't just snap your fingers and change everybody's minds; neither of us has that kind of power.”

The look on his face tells him he highly doubts one half of that statement, but he lets him continue.

“We should give them time, ease them into it. You saw Leon. For that alone, I'm counting today as a win.”

“That may be, but as long as you hold back, they'll never learn. We… _I_ … need to know what you're truly capable of.”

“I'm not sure you want to see that.”

“What happened to trusting each other?”

“You want trust? All right, here's the truth: I'm not sure I want to see that either.”

Arthur's eyes widen a fraction at that, and his reasoning is written plainly across his features: what kind of portents could frighten _him_?

“For your information, having magic doesn't make me immune to the fear of it. My own most of all. Happy now?”

“I… never saw it that way.”

“I'm still learning too, you know? I've no idea where the upper limit is, and I don't fancy finding out just because I can. You, of all people, should be familiar with that. It's the same thing as not abusing the throne you're sitting on. You effectively have the power of life and death over your subjects, and I know for a fact that it frightens you sometimes, don't even try to deny it. Why shouldn't it be the same for me?”

He stares, his face a now familiar mixture of thoughtful and afraid, and the balance of power in the room feels suddenly as delicate as a soap bubble on the verge of popping.

“I'm glad you're not my enemy,” Arthur finally says with a tentative smile.

“Likewise.”

He may have all kinds of battles ahead of him, but at least Merlin isn't fighting alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely apologize for the probable butchering of Old English. I don't even speak modern English as my first language, and my barely existent knowledge of it is self-taught. I have an interest in linguistics and I at least understand the concept of declension thanks to my studies of Latin and Greek, but that's about it.
> 
> All vocabulary found on <https://www.oldenglishtranslator.co.uk>
> 
> Timid attempts at constructing sentences that make sense made half by copying known spells from the show, half thanks to the resources listed here: <https://nyxelestia.livejournal.com/7935.html>
> 
> If the context of the story doesn't make them clear, here are the intended translations, with the warning that I probably messed up in multiple places:
> 
>  _Ic bebēode græd bēonne cwecesand_ = I command the grass to become quicksand
> 
>  _Wíntréow, hine bindaþ_ = vines, bind him
> 
>  _Heaðureáf áhefege_ = make the armor heavy
> 
> I tried, don't make the pieces _too_ small when you rip me to shreds.
> 
>  


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